


The Both of Us

by An_Optimist_Prime, Tails89



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Derek is human, Like the game this fic will get a little dark in some places, M/M, Medical Procedures, Pining, Survivor Guilt, The Last of Us AU, There are no therapists in the apocalypse, everyone is human, except the zombies, side character death, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Optimist_Prime/pseuds/An_Optimist_Prime, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tails89/pseuds/Tails89
Summary: “Holy shit,” Stiles says, startling Derek. He hadn’t even noticed that Stiles had woken up. “You’ve been driving this whole time.”Technically, he hadn’t. He’d stopped twice during the night, both times to siphon gas.“I’m fine.”“No you’re not,” Stiles argues. “Just let me drive, or you’re going to kill both of us.”When Derek doesn’t reply, he sighs, then adds. “You’re gonna have to trust me at some point or this won’t work."-In other words, a Sterek AU inspired by The Last of Us.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 59
Kudos: 75





	1. The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. 
> 
> I originally began writing this fic in 2017, fresh off the heels of having played the first game. I got distracted by college, and then life. Eventually, they announced that there would be a second game, and I was like “It’ll be awesome! I’ll just wait for that to come out and then finish the fic!”
> 
> Anyway, I finished the second game last night, and turns out I was boo boo the fool for expecting something emotionally satisfying. So, while this fic does use the universe settling and rough plot points of the first game, it’ll be diverging in other ways. If you’re not familiar with the game, don’t stress. All you need to know is that it’s a zombie apocalypse, but the zombies are infected by cordyceps spores and turn into these freaky fuckers called clickers.
> 
> I don’t know anything about US geography or medicine, so please hold your willing suspension of disbelief for me. This story is mostly complete, I’m just making some last edits in between study and work. I’ll be posting every Sunday, barring personal or global catastrophes.
> 
> Last, but not least, a huge thanks to [inkandblade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandblade) for beta-reading, and to [Holy-Triangle](http://holy-triangles.tumblr.com/) for being my muse.

**The Both of Us**

by An-Optimist-Prime

**-**

**Ten Years after the Outbreak**

When he sleeps, the nightmares claim him.

The nightmares are always the same. They’re running, all three of them. Just the three of them, because the rest of their family are dead. There’s fire around them, the black air burning their lungs and making it impossible to see. The fire chases them, and the soldiers too.

The nightmare shifts. Now, there’s gunfire. Then, Laura is bleeding out, right in front of him. Laura is bleeding out, and nothing he does can stop it. Laura dies.

The nightmares are always the same. Death and fire and gunshots and--

A loud knock at the door startles Derek from his sleep. In less than a second he’s on his feet. Gun in hand, he moves forward, careful to make no sound. Cracking the door an inch, he peers through.

It’s Erica. Derek steps back as she pushes her way in, heading straight towards the sink of their apartment. 

“Where have you been?” Derek asks. When he’d fallen asleep, she was in the apartment. Judging by the light, it is now late in the afternoon.

“Good to see you too, Derek.” Erica wets a cloth, wringing it before dabbing the bloody cut across her cheek. “I went ahead with the drop. I have some news.”

“That was _our_ drop. The one _we_ were supposed to make.”

“Well, after the theft, it had to be done, and you weren’t the most cooperative person this morning. You said you wanted to be left alone, so I left you alone.”

The apartment falls quiet. Derek takes a breath. They need each other.

“How’d it go?” Derek asks, as he slowly lets out a breath and loosens his rigid posture.

“You know me,” Erica replies, leaning against the sink, smirking. “It was easy. There’s enough ration cards to last us the next few weeks. We keep going like this, and even with the setback we’ll be ready to leave for the dam in less than three months.”

Derek nods in agreement. For a nineteen-year-old, Erica’s an excellent partner. In the two years they’ve known each other, Erica’s proven herself smart, resourceful, and can handle her own in a fight. Smuggling is dangerous, and they’ve both got scars to show for it. But it’s the only way they’re going to get enough supplies to make the journey west to Argent’s dam. To their new home.

Moving towards the sink, Derek takes the cloth from Erica’s hand, and surveys the damage. There’s a cut on her cheek, but it’s shallow. Maybe some light bruising, but nothing that will last. 

“If that’s true, then why are you hurt?” Derek asks. 

“That’s the news,” Erica says, pushing away from the sink and inspecting the damage in a mirror. “A couple of assholes tried to get me on the way back. Severo sent them.”

Severo. He’s been trying to edge them out of the smuggling market since they started. Only two weeks earlier, he’d raided one of their caches and taken everything.

“So he steals our shit, and then tries to kill us,” Derek says, scowling. 

“Thought we’d be easy targets I guess,” Erica says, shrugging. “But, now I know he’s hiding out at the old warehouse. Not sure for how much longer though.”

~o~O~o~

Derek stares at Severo’s corpse, bleeding out onto the pavement.

“Well, now what?” Erica asks. “He’s already sold all our stuff.”

The whole mission had been a clusterfuck. On their way through, they narrowly missed being hit in a bombing. It had all the hallmarks of an Emissary attack. The Emissaries were a rebel militia group, fighting to overthrow the military, and, in their own words, restore democracy. In Derek’s experience, they were little better than the authorities themselves. There were rumours that they were researching a cure as well, but everyone knew that was futile.

After hours of searching the city, they’d found Severo, but he’d put up a fight, right up to the end. Both Derek and Erica had a few more scratches than the one Erica began the mission with. They’d also wasted a fair amount of their ammo, only to find out that Severo had already sold what he had stolen. To the _Emissaries_. The whole situation was going to set back their trip to the dam by months.

“So, we get our shit back,” Derek grits out. Erica rolls her eyes.

“And how do we do that?”

“I don’t know!” Derek growls, clenching his fists and resisting the urge to kick one of the nearby crates. Every time they get close to leaving, something sets them back. He takes a breath, trying to reign in his anger. Right now, they need to think. “We’ll find an Emissary and work it out from there.”

“You won’t have to look far.”

The voice from behind startles them both. Drawing their guns, they aim at the source of the sound. From the side of the building, a man steps out, one arm raised and the other clutching his stomach.

Erica smiles. “The Big Spark himself.”

“Derek, Erica,” Alan Deaton, leader of the Emissaries, says. His breaths are raspy. “Where’s Severo?”

“You just missed him,” Erica says, stepping back and gesturing to the body on the ground. 

Deaton sighs. There’s a blood stain on his shirt, and it’s growing. “I needed him alive.”

“What he sold you wasn’t his to sell,” Derek says, stepping towards Deaton. “I want it all back.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that, Derek. I paid for it. I’d like something in return.”

“What do you want?” Erica asks, crossing her arms.

“I need something smuggled out of the city,” Deaton replies, cryptic as ever. “You do that, and I’ll make it worth it.”

“We’ll get our stuff back?”

“And then some.”

Erica turns to Derek, looking for guidance. It’s not ideal, but at least they’ll get their stuff back. Besides, they’ve smuggled all manner of things outside the quarantine zone before. This will be no different. 

“Lead the way,” Derek says.

~o~O~o~

“ _Attention. Curfew is now in full effect. Anyone caught outside without the proper authorization will be arrested and prosecuted._ ” The speakers crackle as the announcement finishes.

“Shit,” Erica mutters. “We need to hurry.”

It’s almost nightfall and Derek is rapidly growing impatient. The journey is taking them too long, their pace slowed by Deaton’s injury. All the while, the city is growing darker, and the patrols are starting to make their rounds.

“We’re almost there,” Deaton says, as they arrive at an apartment complex. He leads them in, up a flight of stairs and into a hallway. At the end is a deadlocked steel door. Deaton unlocks it. 

“What the hell are we smuggling, Deaton?” Derek asks.

“I’ll show you,” Deaton replies as he pushes on the door. The gunshot wound on his side finally takes its toll and Deaton stumbles, landing inside the apartment. Derek moves to help him up, but the sound of a gun cocking and a voice stops him.

“Get away from him.”

A figure creeps out of one of the side rooms, hand gun aimed straight at them. Derek steps back. Erica raises her own gun in return. He’s young, probably around the same age as Erica, and the same height as Derek. 

“Stiles, it’s all right,” Deaton says, pushing himself up. “They’re with me.”

The figure—Stiles—lowers his gun. His eyes widen at the blood seeping through Deaton’s shirt. He rushes forward and helps Deaton into a seat. As Stiles moves into the light, Derek can see him better. His hair is brown and shaved short, and he’s dressed in a loose red hoodie and jeans. 

“Shit, what happened?” Stiles grabs a cloth, and presses it against Deaton’s wound. Erica lowers her gun.

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Deaton replies, taking the cloth from Stiles. “You ready to go?”

“Wait,” Derek cuts in, astonished. Because, surely not. He and Erica move all manner of things in and out of the quarantine, but they’re not people smugglers. “He’s the cargo?”

“Where are we supposed to take him?” Erica asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.

“Grand Central Station,” Deaton replies. “Tonight. There are Emissaries waiting for you there.”

“That’s not close,” Derek points out. Central station is at least five miles away, and outside of the New York Quarantine zone. On the way there would be patrollers, clickers, and possibly raiders.

“I have full faith that you two are capable of making this trip. You get him there, and it’s all yours when you return. _Double_ what Severo stole from you.”

~o~O~o~

The plan is settled. Erica would go with Deaton to patch him up and confirm that the supplies existed, while Derek would escort the ‘cargo’ to their safehouse. Erica would meet them there when she was done.

Unfortunately, that meant that Derek ended up with Stiles. The safehouse wasn’t far away, but it wasn’t an easy journey either. Since it’s after curfew, they’d have to take the long way around, and pass the checkpoint the Emissaries had bombed earlier that afternoon.

Derek leads the way, guiding Stiles through the back alleys and tunnels of the New York Quarantine. He’s been smuggling long enough to know how to get somewhere unnoticed. Beside him, Stiles is jittery. He’s vibrating with energy, drumming his fingers against every surface. His eyes keep flicking to Derek too. Derek tries to ignore it, and keep to the task at hand. They need to move quickly. The sun has set, patrols are on the rounds, and while there are probably no clickers or runners inside the quarantine zone, you could never know for sure.

The back alley they were following opens to the main street. Staying a few strides ahead, Derek checks if the street is clear before walking out in the open. The bodies from the bombing still lie where they fell, sheets covering them. There are scorch marks too, and the checkpoint building is a mess of twisted steel and concrete. There are no guards or patrollers though. Taking the chance, Derek sprints across the open street, heading for the alley across. Stiles is never more than a stride or two behind. At the end of the alley there’s a door that lets into the building.

“I heard the explosion earlier,” Stiles murmurs, as they make their way through. “I knew Deaton said he’d make a distraction, but…”

“That’s the Emissaries for you,” Derek replies. The teen had joined a rebel militia. What else was he expecting? “Now, keep quiet and follow me.”

“You’re the pro, just lead the way.”

They continue in silence for a while, weaving between buildings until they reach the entrance to the tunnels. Derek shoves aside a crate, revealing the trapdoor beneath. He waits and listens for another minute. The last thing they need is for patrollers to find the tunnels.

Pulling open the trapdoor, Derek lets Stiles drop down into the tunnels before he follows. The whole underground was boarded off just after the infection took hold, but in the years that followed it was cleared out. Now, it’s used by smugglers, for getting around the quarantine zone without patrollers knowing.

Derek turns his flashlight on, illuminating a small patch of the pitch-black tunnel. The concrete floor is damp, and there’s mould growing on the walls, but it’s not cordyceps. The tunnels should be clear of both people and clickers, but Derek keeps his gun in hand anyway.

“So, the subway tunnels,” Stiles says, as they move through the darkness. “This is how you smuggle things, right?”

Derek doesn’t reply. Instead he presses on. The less time spent in the tunnels, the better. 

A few hundred feet later, Stiles speaks again.

“What kinda things do you usually smuggle?”

Once again, Derek doesn’t reply, hoping that Stiles will get the hint. He’s not in the mood to talk, let alone to the person he’s supposed to be smuggling. But Stiles either doesn’t get the hint, or chooses to ignore it, because less than a minute later, he’s speaking again.

“Have you ever smuggled a person before?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Derek snaps, turning toward the teen.

“Nope,” Stiles replies, smirking. “It’s how I am. Better get used to it.”

Derek sighs. If Stiles won’t stop, then he should at least try to get some information out of him.

“What’s the deal with you and Deaton, anyway?”

“Finally!” Stiles exclaims, almost victoriously. His tone is more even as he continues to speak. “He’s kinda my guardian. He knew my dad. He’s been looking after me since…”

Stiles doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Everyone’s lost someone. 

“So, you’re left alone and taken in by the Emissaries,” Derek surmises. It’s not an uncommon story, but still, something doesn’t add up. Why does he need to be smuggled out? Why couldn’t he just leave with Deaton? “Doesn’t explain why you need to get out of the city.”

“Look, I’m not actually allowed to tell you why you’re smuggling me, if that’s what you’re getting at. But--”

“You wanna know the best part of my job? Derek cuts in. If he’s not going to say anything useful, then Derek would far prefer the silence. He’s running out of patience for this job already. “I don’t have to know. To be honest, I don’t give a shit. So, shut up, and follow me.”

“Wow, okay. No need to be a dick about it.”

~o~O~o~

They make it to the safe house without incident.

They waste a couple of hours waiting for Erica to return. Derek spends the time packing everything they need for the trip: food, ammo, basic first aid supplies. It’s double what they need, in case the job goes sideways. Stiles sits on the couch, reading a book he’d brought with him. The whole time, they pointedly ignore each other. It doesn’t bother Derek. Soon, they’ll hand him over to the Emissaries.

Eventually, there’s a sound outside the apartment. He’s almost certain it’s Erica, but his hands reach for his handgun anyway. The door eases open and Erica lets herself in.

“Sorry, there were guards everywhere,” she says, locking the door behind her. “I had to take the long way around.”

Derek nods. He’s glad she’s safe.

“Is Deaton okay?” Stiles asks, standing up.

“He’ll be alright, Stiles. I helped patch him up,” Erica replies, before turning to Derek. “Deaton was serious. Guns and ammo, rations, medicine. There’s a lot of it. It’s all ours if we do this.”

It's risky. Smuggling cargo is difficult enough. If you add in to that the fact that the cargo is a living person, a person who can do stupid things and make mistakes? It makes the job all the more dangerous.

“If we take this job, we could leave for the dam _tomorrow_ ,” Erica adds, her tone almost hopeful.

“This seems too good to be true,” Derek says. Because it is. As much as he likes the idea of leaving for the Argent’s damn the next day, of seeing Cora and Isaac again, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about the whole deal. There is no way would Deaton pay that much to smuggle one person outside of the quarantine. 

“We weren’t Deaton’s first choice, or second,” Erica says, obviously thinking along the same lines. “I think it’s worth it.”

“Fine,” Derek hands Erica a backpack. “Let’s get this over with.” He’s still not convinced, but he trusts Erica’s judgement. 

“Come on Stiles,” Erica says, smiling and slinging the bag over her shoulder. “We’re gonna get you to the Emissaries.”


	2. The Bite

It takes a few hours to make it outside the walled quarantine zone. Which is longer than it usually takes, but the patrols stepped up following the bombing. They can’t take any chances. When it’s safe to do so, Erica and Stiles spend most of their time walking side by side, talking. 

Erica even mentions her boyfriend, Boyd. Boyd is their supplier, and lives on the outskirts of New Jersey. There’s almost nothing he can’t get his hands on. While the two of them talk, Derek keeps out of it.

“You don’t seem like a smuggler,” Stiles says. “Why?”

“We’re trying to make it out west,” Erica replies. “And we need a lot of supplies.”

“Out west? I’m originally from Beacon Hills, California, before all of this happened.”

“Oh really?” Erica says, glancing back at Derek. “What a coincidence, because—”

“We need to be quiet,” Derek hisses, glaring at Erica. It’s not a part of his life he’s willing to share. “There’ll be more patrols ahead.”

Erica and Stiles fall quiet and stay behind Derek as they move forward. The patrols grow more frequent as they make their way closer to Grand Central. It slows them down, having to stop and hide every time a patrol comes past.

The side alley they’re following opens to a street, and Derek leads the way ahead. Before he can check if the passage is clear, something hits him from the left. It stuns him, just enough that the attacker gets another blow in, kicking him to the ground. 

He lands on the pavement hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. Before he can return the attack, the assailant pushes the barrel of a gun against his temple.

“Don’t move!” The patroller shouts.

“Everyone out!” another patroller adds. “Hands up, on the ground, now!”

Erica and Stiles do as they’re told, moving out of the alley. Erica drops down to Derek’s left, Stiles to his right. Someone grabs Derek by the collar of his jacket and pulls him to his knees. The whole time, the gun presses against his head. The left side of his face aches, and he can taste blood.

There are three patrollers, two on guard duty, one on screening.

“Alright, stay still,” the first patroller says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The second patroller speaks into a radio. “This is team Bravo-Two. Requesting an extraction for three smugglers from sector twenty-seven.”

Derek runs through every possible action and scenario to get themselves out of this, but his ideas for escape amount to zero. They need to do something. The people who go into the quarantine prisons don’t tend to come out. He can’t let that happen to Erica.

“I can make it worth your while if you let us go,” Erica says, shooting a sultry smile towards the patrollers.

“Shut up,” the one with the scanner, says. “And stay still while we scan you.”

The patroller scans Erica for infection first. After a few seconds, the scanner pings, the screen flashing green. The patroller turns to Derek next. Beside him, Stiles begins to shake.

The seconds drag by, but the scanner pings green. The patroller turns to Stiles then, but before he can scan, Stiles attacks. He surges forward, stabbing the patroller in the thigh with a knife Derek didn’t even know he had.

The attack startles the other patrollers. Derek seizes the opportunity. He elbows the patroller behind him, wresting the gun from his hands. In seconds, he’s on his feet. He fires, and the patroller falls to the ground, dead.

There’s a second gunshot to his left, and he turns to see Erica has done the same. The third patroller is bleeding profusely from his leg. Erica moves forward and shoots the injured patroller as well.

“Oh my god.” Stiles sinks to the ground, head in his hands.

“What the hell?” Derek asks. Because what was he thinking, taking on a guard like that? They’re lucky none of them were hurt, or worse.

“Oh shit,” Erica says, from behind him. “Derek, look.”

Derek turns to her, catching the scanner she throws towards him. The screen is flashing bright red, positive for infection. They both turn to Stiles. Erica aims her gun at him, and Derek does the same.

“I knew this was too good to be true,” Derek says. Stiles looks up, and Derek throws the scanner at him. Stiles catches it, and in a moment, he’s on his feet. 

“I can explain!” Stiles says. He pulls up the sleeve on his right arm. There’s a clicker bite. It’s faintly red, with a ring of white fungus around the edge. It’s not an old bite – he couldn’t have gotten it more than an hour or two earlier. “I was bitten three weeks ago.”

“Bullshit,” Derek says.

“Everyone turns within twelve hours,” Erica says, at the same time.

“I’m not lying!” Stiles argues. “Think about it, why would Deaton set you up?”

“Who knows?” Derek glances at Erica, gun still aimed at Stiles. “I knew we shouldn’t have done this.”

Before Erica can reply, there’s a rumble in the distance. Car engines.

“Shit!” Erica hisses. “More patrollers.”

Erica grabs Stiles and the three of them run to a nearby building. They rush through what used to be a convenience store and out the fire escape into the back alley. It takes a while, and it leads them way off path, but they lose the patrollers. When they come to a stop inside a building, Derek grabs Stiles and shoves him against a wall.

“Start talking.”

“Deaton said the Emissaries have a lab out west,” Stiles explains, staying mostly calm despite being pinned. “He said whatever happened to me could be used to make a cure, or a vaccine, or something.”

Derek scoffs. The Emissaries don’t have the means to make a cure. No one does.

“It’s what he said,” Stiles says.

“I’m sure he did,” Derek replies.

“Hey, fuck you! I didn’t ask for any of this!”

Before Derek can reply, Erica cuts in.

“What if it’s true?” Erica says, so quiet Derek almost misses what she says.

“Seriously, Erica?”

“He should be turning by now, but he’s not,” Erica presses. “Anyway, it’s not that much further to the drop off point. We might as well finish it. Then, we can collect what Deaton promised us and leave.”

Erica has a point. There’s only another mile or two to the station. But they’re deep in clicker territory. It won’t be easy.

“Fine.” Derek says, stepping back and letting Stiles go. They can make it. Then, they can get their supplies and leave for the dam, and leave all of this behind.

~o~O~o~

Sure enough, it’s not long before they come across a horde of clickers. They’re on the third level of a skyscraper when they find the first one. It stumbles down the halls, clicking and screeching to echolocate. The cordyceps growing on its head has consumed its entire face. Whoever they had been, they’d turned a long time ago.

They try to sneak past it, but it turns its head and starts ambling towards them. It gets too close. Derek pulls out his knife, and lunges for it. He’s not fast enough though. Before he can kill it, it manages to scream. 

Within seconds, three runners and a clicker come barrelling down the hallway. There’s nowhere they can run, so Derek and Erica aim their guns and start firing. They get all four with clean shots to the head, the clicker falling right at their feet.

Moments later more clickers run out. They sprint towards them, snarling and screaming. Derek shoots two of them. The others are too close for a clear shot. He takes one down with his knife, but the other grabs him and goes for the throat.

He pushes back, but it’s not easy. The clicker is screeching and squirming, and they’re strong, too. He shoves it back, giving him just enough space to stab it. The clicker screeches one last time, before it slumps to the ground, bleeding out.

Derek scans the room. Erica’s been knocked to the floor. To her side is a dying clicker, twitching in its death throes. Stiles had killed the last one. The room is silent and still, save for them.

“Oh shit,” Erica mutters.

“You okay?” Derek asks, as Erica pushes herself to her feet.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Erica replies, shaking. “They just got a bit close, that time.”

Derek agrees. That was way too close.

“And I assume you’re fine?” Derek asks Stiles.

“Yup, I’m all good.” Stiles replies, although he’s a little shaken too.

“We need to leave.” Derek says, taking the lead out of the building. The sooner they get to Grand Central, the better.

~o~O~o~

It takes less than an hour to make it to Grand Central Station. There’s no trace of the Emissaries, no one standing guard or scouting. Derek doesn’t say anything. Instead, he breaks through one of the side doors which leads into the ground floor of the building.

Once inside, they follow the corridors until they reach the main hall. The first rays of sunlight are just beginning to shine through the windows, illuminating the inside of the station.

Derek’s the first one to see it. The corpses of a dozen Emissaries, scattered across the floor. Most are missing their backpacks and weapons. Raiders must have got them.

Derek sighs, because really, this is just what they needed. They nearly died on the way here, and now they would have to go all the way back. Would they still get the payment? Hell, would Deaton still even be there?

“No, no!” Erica cries, running forward. She kneels by the bodies, searching through their pockets. “They must have a map, or something.”

“It’s over,” Derek says. It’s disappointing, but there’s no point hanging around. “Let’s head back.”

“No, it’s not,” Erica insists, a desperate tone in her voice. She moves to Stiles, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Stiles, where did Deaton say the lab was?”

“He didn’t,” Stiles replies, almost apologetically. “Only that it was west.”

Erica half-sobs in frustration, running her hands through her hair. She drops back to the ground, resuming her search for clues.

“Erica,” Derek says, firmly. Erica’s desperate to leave the quarantine, they both are. But she’s usually more level-headed than this. “We need to go back.” 

“I’m not going back,” Erica says, slumping forward. Tears start running down her cheeks. “I can’t go back.”

Derek moves towards her. Whatever is upsetting her, they’ll fix it. Erica stands and steps back from him.

“What’s-” Derek starts, before Erica cuts him off.

“Please, don’t touch me.”

Dread coils in his gut.

“Show me,” Derek says.

Erica pulls back the collar on her shirt. There’s a bite, on her shoulder. It’s deep red and bloody, ringed with white fungus. There are infection lines running across her chest and down her arm. Erica grabs Stiles’ arm, and pulls it next to her bite.

“Look, Derek,” Erica says. “He was bitten three weeks ago. I was bitten an hour ago and it’s already worse! This could be the answer. This could be a _cure_.”

When Derek doesn’t say anything, Erica continues. “You need to get him to Chris Argent. He’ll know where the Emissaries are. Boyd will help, he should be able to get you a car.”

“I’m not leaving you behind.” Derek says, trying to ignore the way his stomach sinks. They’ll work something out. There has to be a way.

Outside, the rumbling of engines breaks the quiet of dawn. It grows louder, before stopping just in front of the station. The patrollers had found them.

“I’ll buy you some time, but you need to go now,” Erica says, as she begins loading her handgun. “Just...Just tell Boyd I’m sorry.”

“No,” Derek insists. “I’ll stay and fight.” 

“Please, Derek,” Erica says. “Make this easy for me. Just go. _Please_.”

The patrollers are getting closer, their voices echoing through the halls. 

“I’m sorry Erica,” Stiles says, his voice panicked. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean for this-”

“Just go.” Erica says, and turns towards the entrance of the station.

Grief and anger courses through Derek, but he forces himself to turn away from Erica. He runs for one of the subway tunnels, one heading west. Stiles is close behind him.

A few hundred yards down, and the shouts of patrollers echo through the tunnels. A few seconds later, gunshots begin to ring out. 

Derek almost turns to go back.

He pushes himself forwards. Even when there’s a scream of pain that’s all too familiar. There’s one more flurry of gunshots.

Then silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys :(
> 
> Much like the video game, this fic is gonna get dark in some places. There will be a happy ending (for the main characters, at least), if you can stick with me until the end though.
> 
> Also, shout-out to all the people who commented, book-marked, and kudos the first chapter. It honestly fills me with so much joy. If you wanna talk more fandom, come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/anoptimistprime) or [Tumblr](https://an-optimist-prime.tumblr.com/)!


	3. The Road

The journey from Grand Central Station to Boyd’s hideout is about eight hours on foot. In the past, Derek and Erica would break up the trip by staying in a safehouse that’s about halfway. But this time, he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, hard and fast, never resting. Never checking to see if Stiles is keeping up.

There is a reason he didn’t let himself get close to people, not after Laura. But Erica had found a way in, and now, look what had happened. Fury courses under his skin, there’s an ache in his chest that won’t shift, and threaded through it all is grief.

They never should have taken this job.

It’s past midday when Derek finally stops, leaning against the wall of an old café. He’s only a few hundred yards from the warehouse Boyd calls home. Taking a breath, he tries to compose himself at least a bit. Boyd deserves to hear the news personally, before he found out some other way. Information passes between smugglers and other outlaws quickly.

A few moments later, Stiles joins Derek against the wall. Stiles had been silent for the trip, following without question.

“Look,” Stiles says. His eyes and cheeks are red. “I’m really sorry about Erica--”

Derek turns and grabs him by the collar of his red hoodie, and shoves him against the wall.

“Here’s how this is going to happen,” Derek says, through gritted teeth. Stiles doesn’t get to say that. “You’re not going to mention Erica. And you’ll do exactly what I say, when I say it. Got it?”

“Okay,” Stiles replies, softly. “All right.”

Derek steps back and lets him go. He just has to get Stiles to Argent, and then none of this will be his problem anymore. Without another word, he storms the rest of the way to Boyd’s. They circle the warehouse until they find the right door, the one that only Derek and Erica used. He bangs his fist against the door a few times, and waits. A few moments later, there’s some shuffling behind the door before the deadbolt slides.

The door swings open, and Boyd is standing there. There’s a slight smile on his face as his eyes scan past Derek for Erica. But between her absence, and the way Derek knows how he and Stiles look, it only takes a moment for Boyd to realise what has happened.

“How?” Is all Boyd manages to choke out.

“Clickers,” Derek replies, barely holding it together himself. “She chose to end it on her terms. She said she’s sorry.”

Boyd retreats inside the warehouse. Derek and Stiles follow behind

“We were trying to get him to the Emissaries,” Derek elaborates, gesturing towards Stiles. None of this is Stiles’ fault; it’s all _his_. He should have been faster, stronger. He should have protected Erica better.

“On the way we were caught by patrollers, and then we had to cut through unfamiliar territory. We were attacked by clickers, and then the Emissaries were dead at the drop off. The patrollers cornered us there. She bought us time to escape.” Derek continues, trying to ignore how his voice almost wavers. After a moment, he adds, “He needs to get to the Emissaries. Argent will know where they are.”

The silence in the room hangs heavy, until Stiles breaks it.

“I was bitten three weeks ago,” Stiles says, pulling up his sleeve to show Boyd. “The Emissaries think there might be a chance for a cure, or something.”

If the revelation surprises Boyd, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he’s quiet for a minute, before speaking.

“I can get you a car,” Boyd says. “Just…give me a few hours.”

~o~O~o~

After Boyd had left them alone, Derek headed to the back room where he and Erica kept their things. They kept a small cache of supplies at Boyd’s, for if a mission went sideways.

“You shouldn’t tell people about your bite,” Derek says, as he unlocks the door to their storeroom. “They’ll kill you for it.”

“Well, you clearly trust him, so I thought I’d be safe,” Stiles says. “And he deserved to know.”

Once inside, Derek heads straight for his side of the room. There’s not much there apart from a set of drawers on each side, and a dusty old couch in the middle. The room is dark, save for what little sunlight glows through the cracks of the boarded-up windows.

Derek searches through and takes out his supplies. There isn’t much there. Two spare handguns, a modest amount of ammunition, a basic med kit, and some packaged food. Assuming the car made it all the way to the dam, they would have just enough to make it.

But it’s a long drive to Wyoming, and not a safe one, either.

It’s only after he’s packed everything into his backpack that he realises how bad his shirt is. It’s torn in places, and soaked through with dried blood and viscera. Without another thought, Derek rips his shirt off and throws it to the side.

Behind him, Stiles mutters something. Derek turns to see Stiles sitting on the couch, intently reading one of his books.

“What?” Derek asks.

“Nothing! Nothing at all!” Stiles replies, his voice pitched a bit higher than usual. “I’m just reading. Totally not looking around at things, nope, not at all.”

Derek turns back to the dresser, leaving Stiles to babble. He pulls out a faded red henley, quickly putting it on. There’s a leather jacket there too, one he’d forgotten he’d had, so he grabs it as well.

Derek pauses for a moment. He’s ready to go, although they wouldn’t be going anywhere until Boyd comes back. He knows that he should take the time to rest, but he doesn’t feel like it. Instead, he spends the rest of the day planning their route until Boyd finds them later that day.

“It’s ready.” Is all Boyd says, leading them to the opposite side of the warehouse. Inside one of the garages is a black four-wheel drive. The exterior is mostly fine, although there is a large dent on the rear passenger door.

“Here you go,” Boyd says, his tone exhausted. “I fixed up what I could. It’s not the best, but it should get you to the dam, or close, at least.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, throwing his backpack on the back seat. He doesn’t know what else to say – Laura was always better at this – so he just adds, “There’s a seat for you, if you want.”

“No,” Boyd replies. “I only wanted to go because Erica wanted to leave the city.”

After a moment, Boyd sighs, and continues.

“I just hope something comes of this. I hope it was worth it.”

~o~O~o~

Earlier that year, Derek and Erica received a message from Cora and Isaac. It was the location of where they’d settled – an old hydroelectric dam, in Wyoming. Assuming – and hoping – they were still there, it’s about a thirty-five-hour drive. Longer if they avoided major cities.

They’d been driving for close to three hours at that point. When they’d left Boyd’s, the sun had just started to set. Now, it’s dark, with the moon little more than a silver in the sky.

While Derek’s been driving, Stiles has spent the better part of the past hour trying to get the radio to work.

“No one’s even broadcasting.” Derek says.

“Pessimist.” Stiles replies, but he sits back in his seat, sighing. _The moonlight suits him_ , Derek thinks. He shakes his head and pushes the thought aside. 

“You know, I can drive,” Stiles says, a few minutes later. “If you need a break.”

It’s a tempting offer. Derek hasn’t slept since before they’d left New York, and it’s catching up with him.

But if he slept, the nightmares would come, and Erica would be among them.

“Not happening.” Derek replies, tersely.

“Whatever,” Stiles says, turning in his seat to face the window. “Wake me if you change your mind.”

~o~O~o~

It’s almost morning when Stiles wakes up.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, startling Derek. He hadn’t even noticed that Stiles had woken up. “You’ve been driving this whole time.”

Technically, he hadn’t. He’d stopped twice during the night, both times to siphon gas.

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” Stiles argues. “Just let me drive, or you’re going to kill both of us.”

When Derek doesn’t reply, he adds. “You’re gonna have to trust me at some point or this won’t work."

Derek growls in response. As much as he hates it, Stiles is right. He needs to rest. He pulls the car over and stops on the shoulder of the road.

“Fine, but—"

“Yeah yeah, I know. Stay away from the cities, don’t stop for anyone,” Stiles says, cutting him off. “I got this.”

Derek is reluctant, but gets out of the car and switches into the passenger seat.

At first, he watches Stiles closely as he starts to drive. But it only takes a few minutes for the movement of the car to lull him to sleep.

~o~O~o~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a short chapter. The following chapters will be longer. Thanks to everyone who has subscribed, and left kudos and comments. They really are appreciated :)
> 
> If you wanna talk sterek (or teen wolf) come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/anoptimistprime) or [Tumblr](https://an-optimist-prime.tumblr.com/)


	4. Stranded

Three days pass like that, with the two of them taking turns sleeping and driving. The day before, however, the car started acting up, the engine running hot and hissing. On the outskirts of Cheyenne, the car breaks down, black smoke pouring out from under the hood. Derek considers trying to repair it, but they have no parts or tools.

There’s really no choice but to leave it behind and continue on foot. They could always look for another one in the city.

Derek kicks one of the tyres, before grabbing his stuff out of the backseat.

“Get out,” Derek says. “We’re walking.”

“So I guess it’s unsalvageable?” Stiles says, grabbing his own bag and slinging it over his shoulders. Derek grunts in response. “How far to the dam?”

“About two weeks on foot.” Derek replies.

“Shit. Okay. I did not pack for that.”

“We’ll work something out.”

They follow the highway into the city. If he had the choice, Derek would have avoided the city all together, but now they’d lost the car, they’d need supplies.

“So, you’re from California?” Stiles asks, as they weave their way between cars. The closer they got to the centre of the city, the more congested the highway became.

“Maybe.” Derek replies. He has no desire to share his past with someone he barely knows. He doesn’t plan on ever returning to Beacon Hills, or California, ever again. Not when all that was waiting was the burned out remains of his family home.

“I feel like we’re just repeating ourselves here.”

Derek’s about to reply when someone staggers onto the road in front of them, about thirty feet away. The man is dressed in an oversized and bloody coat, clutching their left side.

“Please, help!” he says, slowly stumbling towards them.

Derek stops in his tracks. Every one of his instincts is telling him that this is a trap. There’s no way it isn’t.

“No one that hurt would risk going out in broad daylight.” Stiles mutters, pulling out his knife. Derek takes out his own handgun, aiming it straight at the raider.

The raider must have figured that the plan isn’t going to work, because he stills. For a moment, no one moves.

“Now!” The raider shouts, as he reaches for a gun in his coat.

Derek is faster though. He fires, and the raider drops to the ground, with a bullet in his chest. Without another thought, Derek grabs Stiles by the arm, and pulls them behind a car, ducking low to the ground. Only seconds later, bullets start raining down from above.

“It’s a sniper,” Stiles says. Derek curses. They should have been more careful, and stayed off the main road. Now, they were right in the middle of an ambush.

Scanning around, Derek spots an old convenience store, directly across from them. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best chance they have. He points it out to Stiles, who nods.

The sniper shots stop for a moment, and they take the chance. They sprint for the store.

But there are raiders already there, waiting.

Derek spots them first. He shoots one of the raiders. But another one grabs him from behind, tearing the gun from his hand. Derek elbows the raider in response. The raider’s grip loosens just enough that Derek can break free. He turns around, and grabs the raider by the head, slamming him into the wall. The raider slumps to the ground, lifeless.

Picking up his handgun, he turns to find Stiles, fighting on the other side of the room. One raider is on the ground, bleeding out from a stab wound to the stomach. But another has managed to grab Stiles, his arm locked around his throat.

Derek rushes for the raider. He hits the raider across the back of the head, sending both the raider and Stiles to the ground. He pulls the raider away from Stiles, shooting him in the head.

He moves back to Stiles, who is coughing and spluttering on the ground, and helps him to his feet.

“You okay?” Derek asks.

“I’m fine,” Stiles replies, his voice croaky. Although he tries to ignore it, the words fill Derek with relief.

“We need to run.” Derek says.

“I figured that.” Stiles replies.

They leave the store through the fire escape. Just as they turn onto the street, a bullet rips past, narrowly missing Derek. Ducking behind a car, Derek returns fire. Two raiders fall, one from a bullet to the chest, the other a headshot.

They keep running. The raiders follow, but quickly fall behind.

A few minutes later, they stop in an alley. Derek knows there’s a good chance they’ve lost them, but it would be safer to keep moving.

The alley is fenced off halfway through, but there’s a roller-door just before it. Derek moves towards it, and grabs the handle. The door’s unlocked, but heavy. He wouldn’t be able to slide under it himself while holding it.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “I’m gonna lift this, and you’re gonna jam it on the other side so I can get through.”

“Okay,” Stiles replies, crouching down. Derek lifts the door, just high enough for Stiles to slide under.

“Hey Derek? I don’t know if we want to go in here,” Stiles says, a few seconds later. “It’s pretty bad.”

“Just jam the door,” Derek snaps, the strain starting to set into his muscles. Stiles mutters something on the other side. A few seconds later, a steel bin appears, jamming under the roller door.

Derek drops the door, and the bin holds. He ducks under it, before pulling the bin out and slowly lowering the door back to the ground. He turns around, and immediately sees what Stiles had been talking about.

Lying on the tables in the converted garage are corpses. There’s maybe a dozen of them, none of them dead longer than a few days.

“Told you,” Stiles says, his voice quieter than usual. “Complete nightmare fuel.”

Trying not to look at the corpses, Derek scans the room. There are lockers and duffel bags, and tools left on the table. The garage is probably the raider’s storehouse.

“Let’s just grab what we can and go.” Derek says, as he searches the lockers to his right. Stiles does the same on the other side of the room.

Most of the shelves are empty, but a few contain ammunition or medical supplies. In the fourth locker he checks, Derek finds some kind of assault rifle, with matching rounds.

“That’s a pretty nice AR-15 you have there.” Stiles says. Derek turns around, and sees him holding what looks like a homemade Molotov.

“What? It might be useful.” Stiles adds, when he sees Derek’s scowl.

Derek rolls his eyes and keeps searching. He doesn’t find much else worth taking. By the time he’s done, Stiles is already packing his bag, a handgun by his side.

“Not happening.” Derek says, reaching for the gun. A Molotov is bad enough. The last thing he needs is a firearm in the hands of an inexperienced teen who can barely sit still for a minute. Stiles pulls it out of the way.

“You know, this would be so much easier if you just let me have a gun,” Stiles argues.

“Hand it over.” Derek growls out. He doesn’t have the time or patience for this.

“Or what, you’ll shove me into a wall?” Stiles snaps. “That doesn’t have the effect on me that you think it does.”

Derek takes a breath, resisting the urge to do just that.

“There’s no point if you don’t know how to use one.” Derek counters, trying to keep his tone more even.

“Is _that_ the issue here?” Stiles says. “My father was a police officer. I know how to shoot. Hell, I probably know more about guns than you do.”

The response makes Derek pause, and glare at the teen. “That would have been nice to know earlier.”

“Well, you know,” Stiles says, loading the handgun with practiced ease. “If you’d actually speak to me once in a while, you might be surprised.”

~o~O~o~

Derek makes a point of talking to Stiles, after that.

They’re stranded now, and it isn’t an easy journey to Argent’s dam. They’ll both die if they don’t cooperate. It would help to have some idea of each other’s strengths and weaknesses, too.

So, in the moments where it’s safe, they talk.

“So, you know how to shoot,” Derek asks. He wants to know all of the younger man’s skills. If they had given him a gun earlier, it would have saved them a lot of trouble. Hell, maybe Erica would still be with them. “Know anything else useful?”

“Not really,” Stiles replies, shrugging. “Aside from knowing how to use a firearm, my only defence is sarcasm. I mean, I can research stuff pretty well, but I don’t know how useful that’ll be out here.”

“What about the Emissaries?” Derek presses, insistent. “Do you know _anything_ about where they are?”

“Literally, all Deaton told me was that they have a place out west,” Stiles replies, just as frustrated as Derek is. “Sorry I can’t give you more than that. The dude’s cryptic at best.”

Derek had to agree with him there. He’d only ran into Deaton a couple of times when he was a smuggler, but the leader of the Emissaries never gave him a straight answer.

“But, I overheard a few of the other Emissaries talking back at the New York base,” Stiles continues. “They mentioned something about a university.”

So the Emissaries are possibly stationed at a university somewhere to the west of New York City. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

“I know. But that’s all I got,” Stiles says. “So, what’s the plan from here? You said it was two weeks to the dam, right?”

“If nothing goes wrong.” Derek replies.

“Well then, we need supplies,” Stiles says, pointing across the road to an abandoned mall. “Might be stuff in there.”

They do need supplies, but shopping centres are a bad idea. If it isn’t crawling with raiders, it would definitely be full of clickers. Most of the stores were probably already looted as well.

“Look, I know it’s risky,” Stiles adds, seeing Derek’s hesitation. “But when are we going to get another chance?”

“Fine.” Derek says, but only because they really do need more supplies.

They cross the road to what used to be a mall, guns at the ready. The sliding doors at the front are broken, along with all the windows. Tiny shards of glass coat the concrete, crunching underfoot.

As they enter the foyer, Derek bends down to pick up a glass bottle. If there are any clickers, they might as well draw them out now, when they’re close to an exit. He throws the bottle as far as he can, the bottle making an echoing sound as it shatters across the floor.

A moment later, a clicker shoots out from one of the stores, screeching. Stiles fires a single shot, getting the clicker clean through the head. It slumps to the floor, silent.

They wait for a minute, but no more clickers run out.

“Looks like we’re clear,” Stiles says, walking deeper into the abandoned mall. Derek follows behind. the inside of the mall is how Derek expected to find it. The stores have been looted, or closed and locked up behind metal security gates. The plants left inside have gone wild, outgrowing their pots and spilling onto the floor.

Beside him, Stiles stops. It takes Derek a few seconds to realise that Stiles is no longer walking with him. He turns around to see Stiles staring at something on one of the walls. Derek walks back to see what’s caught his attention.

Stiles is staring at an old movie poster. It’s for some teen paranormal romance movie.

“Sometimes I forget there was a world before this one,” Stiles says. “A weird one though. I mean, Teen Wolf? Who would even watch that?”

Derek grunts in response. He’s pretty sure Laura dragged him along to go see it, back before.

“You think it’ll ever go back to how it was before?”

“Maybe,” Derek replies. He turns away and keeps walking. There’s no point thinking about what can’t be fixed.

“So,” Stiles says, catching up. “A while back, you mentioned someone named Argent.”

“He’s an arm’s dealer,” Derek explains. He’d met Chris Argent back when he’d first started smuggling. Argent had been one of his suppliers for weaponry, until he left to start the settlement. “He leads a settlement at a hydroelectric dam. He keeps tabs in…certain circles though, so if anyone knows where the Emissaries are, it’s him.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re a smuggler,” Stiles says. “But we can trust him?”

Chris Argent is severe, but he keeps to a code of honour, and takes care of his own. He’d get Stiles to the Emissaries in one piece. When Cora said she wanted to leave New York, Derek didn’t argue. After all, she’s safer with Chris, anyway. After what happened to Laura, Derek didn’t trust himself to keep her safe.

“Yes,” Derek replies. “But I wouldn’t show him your bite.”

“Fair enough.”

They slip into a comfortable silence after that.

A few hundred metres further into the mall, they find an old camping store. The metal security gate is locked down, but someone had cut the corner out, leaving a hole just large enough to crawl through. They throw some bricks in first to check, but when no screeching comes from inside, they crawl in. Inside, it’s pitch black. They switch on their flashlights, illuminating the darkness.

The store is picked clean. There’s no food, weapons, or ammunition. But then again, Derek didn’t expect there to be. Stiles has a bit more luck. He manages to find a pair of sturdier boots, and a single sleeping bag.

“Looks like we’re sharing,” Stiles says, smirking as he holds up the bag. Derek rolls his eyes, trying to ignore both the joke and the thoughts it conjures.

As they continue to search through the store, Derek finds what used to be the manager’s office in the back of the building. It has a door that locks, and a fire exit which leads out the building. Derek tests the exit. It opens freely. there’s nothing stopping them from making a quick escape if they need to.

The room would do for the night.

Derek locks them in, before slumping against the far wall. His limbs and eyelids are heavy. The last few days are starting to catch up with him.

“You okay?” Stiles asks, as he rolls out his new sleeping bag.

“I’m fine,” Derek says, straightening up. “I’ll take the first watch.”

~o~O~o~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’re all enjoying the story so far. A huge thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments. They give me life.
> 
> Wanna chat teen wolf or sterek? Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/anoptimistprime) or [Tumblr](https://an-optimist-prime.tumblr.com/) :)


	5. The Dam

“So like, we’re close, right?” Stiles asks from behind Derek as they follow the trail. “Because I am so hungry right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Derek replies. They had been trekking for just over two weeks now and had ran out of food the day before. But they couldn’t be far away. There are tyre tracks in the mud, fresh ones.

“Okay, good, because this whole cross-country thing on foot is starting to get old.”

Derek grunts in response. It has been less than ideal, although it could have been worse. Almost every day had been like the one before. They’d been mostly trekking through forest, spending the daylight hours walking, and taking it in turns to sleep and keep watch at night. There’d been no clickers or raiders on the way either.

There’s a distinct chill that hangs in the air after sundown, and tree leaves are beginning to shift from green to red. During the day it’s still warm though, so Stiles has the sleeves of his hoodie pulled up.

The trail they’re following begins to head downhill, which makes Derek pause. Below, there’s an old hydroelectric dam, the turbines moving as water flows through. The dam is ringed by high brick walls, edged with barbed wire. Across the top of one of the buildings is a huge painting of an arrow, large enough to be seen from miles away. Argent’s personal mark.

“That’s it,” Derek says, relieved to have finally made it. Then it hits him, all at once. Erica should have made it too.

“You sure it’s them?” Stiles asks. “Because if they’re not…”

“I’m sure,” Derek replies, sharper than he meant to be. “Come on.”

They take the long but safer route down to the dam. As they approach the gate, Derek turns to Stiles.

“I was serious about keeping your bite hidden,” Derek says. If Argent or anyone in there found out, they’d shoot him before they’d get the chance to explain. “And don’t tell anyone this time.”

Stiles nods, and tugs his sleeves down to his wrists.

As they walk towards the entrance gate of the dam, the guards in the watchtowers notice, drawing their weapons.

“Step back!” One of the guards shouts. “Drop your weapons!”

Derek shrugs off his backpack, placing it on the ground. Stiles does the same. A few moments later, the gates swing open, revealing none other than Allison Argent. She’s holding her bow, aimed straight at him.

Allison recognises Derek almost instantly, lowering her bow but keeping the arrow notched.

“It’s alright, they’re friendly,” Allison calls out to her crew, before walking towards Stiles and Derek.

“Come on in, Derek,” Allison says, before turning to Stiles. “I’m Allison. And you are?”

“Stiles,” Stiles answers, as they follow Allison into the main yard of the dam.

Derek, meanwhile, scans the crowd.

“Where’s Cora and Isaac? And your father?” Derek asks. He can’t see Cora anywhere, and the sooner he can talk to Chris, the better.

“I think Cora is on field duty today,” Allison replies. It calms him a bit, knowing his sister is safe. “Dad and Isaac aren’t here at the moment. They’re out scouting with a team, and should be back in a few days. Is everything okay?”

It isn’t ideal that Argent is absent, but there’s nothing they can do about it. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Come on,” Allison says. “I’ll show you guys around.”

~o~O~o~

Chris Argent returns four days later, just as Allison had promised.

The dam is impressive, for an independent settlement. It has its own farm, complete with a barn and horses, although they still needed to hunt. Allison claimed that if the seasons were good, they’d be self-sufficient within a year or two. The place had electricity as well, generated by the dam, which was more than most quarantine zones had.

It’s been nice to spend a few days without having to worry about finding food or somewhere safe to sleep. Everyone has to help out at the dam, but whenever he’s not working, Derek spends time with Cora.

And when he’s not with Cora, he’s with Stiles. Despite his best intentions, Stiles has grown on him, and Derek finds himself seeking him out when Cora is busy. Which is why he’s spending his afternoon off-duty watching Allison teach Stiles how to use a bow.

“Damn it,” Stiles sighes, as another arrow hits the target board, but inches from the centre.

“You’ve got really good aim, we just have to work on the technique,” Allison says, picking up and notching her own arrow to demonstrate. “See, you’ve got to hold it like _this_.”

She draws and fires with practiced ease, the arrow lodging itself in the centre of the target.

“Like that,” Allison continues, her voice encouraging. “Try again.”

The arrow still doesn’t hit the centre, but it does land closer than the one before. Stiles definitely has good aim. If he kept at it, he’d be pretty good with a bow before long. 

A few moments later the doors to the front gate swing open. Argent rides in, followed by a few others on horseback.

“Do you need me?” Stiles asks Derek, as Allison drops her bow and runs to her father.

“No,” Derek replies, leaving Stiles to his archery and walking over to Argent and the others. As he reaches the group, Isaac rides in through the gate.

“Derek!” He calls out, noticing him immediately and dismounting his horse. “You finally made it out here.”

As anxious as he is to talk to Argent, Derek turns to his friend. 

“Hey, Isaac. It’s good to see you.”

Isaac leads his horse towards the stable, chatting to Derek as they walk.

“I was beginning to think you guys were never going to make the trip.” Isaac says. “Let me guess” He smirks at Derek over his shoulder. “It was Erica who finally dragged you two off your asses, wasn’t it.” Isaac glances over towards the archery range where Stiles is still messing around with his bow, and then back at Derek.

“What?” He laughs. “Don’t tell me they didn’t come.” 

Derek swallows down the lump that’s formed in his throat. ”Erica was bitten, back in New York.” With each word Isaac’s face falls. “Boyd- Boyd decided to stay back.”

Isaac must read the guilt in Derek’s expression because he says “It wasn’t your fault.”

“No,” Derek shakes his head. “It was. I-”

“Hale.” Chris calls out, having handed his own horse over to one of the stablehands.

“We’ll talk about this later.” Isaac promises, as Chris makes his own way over.

“Argent,” Derek replies.

“Glad to see you made it,” Chris adds. If he notices that Erica isn’t there, he doesn’t say anything. “What finally brought you out this way?”

“I had a business deal that went a bit sideways,” Derek replies, which makes Chris smirk. “I need to speak with you. Privately.”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Chris leads him into the dam itself, to a room that probably used to be the foreman’s. It’s sparsely decorated, with a table and two chairs, and walls covered in maps and design schematics. Chris closes the door behind them, before taking a seat at the table.

“Pretty good set up you’ve got here.” Derek says, taking the seat opposite Chris.

“It’s nice, but it’s hard work,” Chris replies. “There are raiders all the time, and we have to range further and further out to find supplies. Kate went out west almost a year ago, but I haven’t heard from her since.”

The last part isn’t that upsetting to hear. Back when he and Laura were still new to the New York Quarantine, he and Kate had briefly dated. But Kate had a vicious streak, and had not taken it well when he’d broken things off with her.

“So, Hale,” Chris asks. “What do you want?”

“Information,” Derek replies. “I need to know where the Emissaries are.”

Chris thinks for a moment, leaning back in his chair.

“I know they have a facility in the main science building at the University of Western Colorado. Last I heard, it’s still operational.”

_The University of Western Colorado_. It wasn’t close, but it could be worse. It lines up with what Stiles had overheard when he was back with the Emissaries as well.

“And how long ago was that?” Derek asks. Emissaries never tend to stay in the same place for long.

“A few months,” Chris admits. “Why are you asking about the Emissaries, Hale? They’re not really the company you keep.”

“Stiles needs to get to them. I was hoping you could help him.”

If Derek was being honest with himself, it hurt a little to let Stiles go, but Argent would get him to the Emissaries. They only got to the dam by sheer chance.

“Not happening,” Chris replies. “I’m not gonna risk my men just to get some kid to the Emissaries.”

“I’m only here because I know I can trust you,” Derek says. “He’s immune.”

That makes Chris pause.

“You sure?” Chris says. “How do you know?”

“He has a bite mark on his right arm that’s six weeks old. The Emissaries believe they can turn it into a cure.”

Argent falls quiet for a moment.

“I need to see it. But if it’s true, I’ll take him to the Emissaries myself.”

~o~O~o~

Three days after his meeting with Argent, Stiles finally asks.

“So, how long are we staying here?”

They’re eating lunch in the dam’s main mess hall, joined by Allison and Cora. Argent had asked for a few days to make preparations for the trip and Derek had spent that time procrastinating telling Stiles.

“I’m not sure,” Derek says, keeping his tone even. “You’ll have to ask Argent. He’s the one taking you to the Emissaries.”

“Excuse me, what?” Both Stiles and Allison say at the same time.

“He knows the area better than I do--” Derek starts, although if he’s being honest, the thought of Stiles leaving without him doesn’t sit as well as it used to.

“Seriously?” Stiles says, cutting him off. “No, just admit it! You’ve wanted to get rid of me this whole time!”

Derek had expected that Stiles wouldn’t be happy, but he didn’t expect him to sound so _hurt_ about it. Allison storms off, no doubt to speak to her father.

“That’s not what this is.” Despite what Stiles might think, Derek doesn’t hate him. In fact, in the weeks that have passed, Stiles has become his friend, and the first person in a long time that he actually trusts.

“Then what is it?” Stiles presses. “What are you worried about? I can take care of myself.”

“How many close calls have we had?” Derek retorts. Stiles would be safer with Argent. People who stay around Derek tend to get hurt.

“We’ve been doing fine so far.”

“And you’ll do even better with Argent.”

Stiles regards him quietly for a moment.

“Is that what this is about?” Stiles asks. “You know, you’re not the only one who’s lost someone.”

The comment brings forward memories of fire and smoke, gunshots and death.

“You know nothing about loss!” Derek seethes, suddenly full of rage.

Stiles is momentarily stunned by the fury of his reply but holds his stare for a few moments longer.

“Fine. Whatever.” Stiles seethes, before he turns and stalks away.

“Smooth move, bro.” Cora says, a few seconds later.

Derek grunts in response. He already regrets his decision. They’d spent only a few weeks together, but Stiles is the closest thing to a friend he’s had in a long time. It’s just another thing he’s managed to fuck up, another thing he’s ruined.

“Well, what are you going to do about that?” Cora asks.

“What do you want me to do?” Derek snaps.

Cora considers the question for a few moments.

“For what it’s worth,” Cora says, her voice pitching quieter. “I think you should go. Not that I don’t want you around, but I think this is really important.”

”You know?” Derek asks. He’s not even a bit surprised that Stiles had been telling people, despite his earlier warning.

“Isaac and I weaselled it out of him,” Cora admits, unashamed. “He needs to get to the Emissaries. Isaac and I can come too, if you want. We’ll be safer, in a larger group.”

“No,” Derek says, his tone insisten and sharp. He won’t put them in danger. Any of them. “He’s safer with Argent.”

“He’s safer with someone he trusts,” Cora stresses. “and honestly, you’re happier around him. That’s important too.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns to the direction that Stiles had disappeared to, and sighs.

~o~O~o~

A few hours later, Derek talks to Argent.

He’s more than happy to give them the supplies needed to make the trip. He gives Derek directions to the university as well, along with two horses.

“There’s always a place for you here, you know,” Argent says, as he hands Derek a map. “Good luck with everything. I hope you find the Emissaries. I really do.”

Then, Derek goes to find Stiles. He’s on watch duty, up in one of the towers, overlooking the river below.

“What?” Stiles snaps. He doesn’t even turn to look at Derek.

“You’ll need to get your stuff together tonight,” Derek says, as he takes the spot next to Stiles. “We’re going first thing tomorrow.”

Stiles turns towards him, almost startled.

“ _We’re_?” Stiles says, incredulous. “As in, plural? As in you and I, the both of us?”

Derek tries to ignore just how warm Stiles’ happiness makes him feel

“Come on, before I change my mind.”

Stiles smiles, and follows after him.

~o~O~o~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re back on the road for the next chapter! Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to kudos and comment on this fic.
> 
> A huge thanks to @Tails89, who basically ghost-wrote a chunk of this chapter when I got stuck. Best. Beta. Ever.
> 
> Wanna chat teen wolf or sterek? Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/anoptimistprime) or [Tumblr](https://an-optimist-prime.tumblr.com/)


	6. The University

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies everyone for the delay in posting. I explain further in the endnotes.

“Seriously,” Derek says. “Roscoe?”

They’d been travelling for a week, covering more ground on the horses than they could on foot. If they keep up the pace, they could make it to the University in about another week or two. It’s still a long journey though, so they have plenty of time to get to know each other.

“Well, it’s not my fault we didn’t ask Argent for his name before we left,” Stiles replies, adjusting the bow slung across his back. Allison had given it to him, just before they’d left. “So I’m calling him Roscoe. And anyway, your horse needs a name too.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes he does, and you need to come up with one, or I will. We can’t leave him without a name, it’s weird.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

Stiles thinks for a moment. “Socks.”

“Socks? That’s somehow worse that Roscoe.”

“It’s because his markings on his legs look like socks!” Stiles argues, pointing to the horse’s legs. He had to admit, they did look like socks. “Anyway, until you come up with something better, Socks it is.”

They fall back into silence, but it’s more comfortable than awkward. Derek has to admit that he’s starting to enjoy the company. Stiles still talks a lot, especially now that they’re out in the wilds. Though now, Derek finds it more endearing than annoying. He can’t deny how reassuring it is to have someone he trusts watching his back again, either.

Derek has to keep reminding himself that they’ve only known each other for about a month. And soon, they’d split up anyway. They’d get to the Emissaries soon, and Derek had no intention to stay with them for long.

But for now, it’s only them and the open road.

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking on and off, with Stiles doing most of it. As it draws closer to evening though, he can see Stiles starting to shiver.

“You okay?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles replies, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

Winter is closing in, and faster than Derek had expected. There were frosts in the morning’s now, and the winds had an icy chill to them. The cold affects Stiles more than him, but even he’s noticed that the temperature has been dropping with each passing day.

They’ll need to settle in for the night soon, before it gets too dark.  They’l l have to light a fire too, because of the chill. He doesn’t like having a fire, especially out in the open, but there’s not much of a choice. It’s been getting too cold to not have one. It leads to long, sleepless nights though – they have to take turns keeping watch.

“Hey, over there,” Stiles says, pointing down the field towards the river. Next to the water, nestled by a few trees, is a cabin.

“A cabin in the woods,” Stiles continues. “Spooky. But like, hopefully warmer than out here.”

It would certainly be the best they’d find out here. They approach the cabin with caution, gently pushing open the door before creeping in, guns raised.

They’re lucky. The cabin is in pretty good condition, and it's empty of people or clickers. Inside, it’s basic but homely. There are two rooms in the cabin - a combined kitchen and living room complete with a fireplace, and a single bedroom with an ensuite. The shelter alone would be enough for the night. They won’t have to light a fire.

They tie up the horses to a tree outside and settle in for the night. Derek rummages through the kitchen, to see if there’s anything left, while Stiles checks the wardrobes in the bedroom.

“Yes!” Stiles says, from the bedroom. “I think some of these might fit me!”

Derek turns to see Stiles dump a pile of clothing onto the bed, before pulling off his shirt to try the newer clothes on.

Underneath his loose clothing Stiles is surprisingly toned, his skin pale like the moon. The sight of it makes his breath catch in his throat. Derek tears his gaze away before Stiles notices and keeps searching the house to distract himself.

~o~O~o~

Before long, night settles in.

“It’s gonna be so nice to sleep in a real bed for once,” Stiles says, stretching out as he flops back on the bed.

“I’ll take the couch,” Derek says. There is, after all, only one bed, and he doesn’t want to make Stiles uncomfortable.

“Don’t be stupid,” Stiles replies, shuffling across to the left-hand side. “The bed is big enough for both of us.”

Derek briefly considers just taking the couch anyway. But it’s going to be a cold night, and he needs sleep. He sighs, walking over to the bed before settling in beside Stiles, back to back. He shouldn’t overthink this. This is just about practicality, after all. Nothing else.

~o~O~o~

Derek wakes with the sun, having slept better than he has in a long time. Stiles is sprawled on top of him, across his chest, their legs tangled together. He’s still asleep, his breaths even and deep.

Derek knows he should get up. He knows that he should find this whole situation to be awkward at best. Except it’s not. Instead, he feels comfortable and safe, for the first time in a long time.

He forces himself up. Stiles mutters something as he’s jostled by the movement.

“We need to get moving,” Derek says, loudly enough to wake Stiles.

“Five more minutes,” Stiles mumbles, shifting across to the warm spot that Derek had left.

~o~O~o~

Two weeks later, they arrive at the University of Western Colorado.

“Did you ever go to college?” Stiles asks, as they ride towards the centre of the campus.

“No,” Derek replied, incredulously. How old does Stiles think he is? “I was only twelve when the infection broke out.”

“Ha, so you’re twenty-two!” Stiles says, triumphant. “I’ll add that to the other three things I know about you.”

“You know four things about me? I’ve been oversharing.”

His comment makes Stiles laugh, and he’s shocked to find that he likes how it sounds.

“And now I know you can be funny,” Stiles says, beaming. “I also know that you’re a smuggler, that Cora is your sister, and that you’re twenty-two. I’m also about 90% sure you’re from California.”

Something buzzes beneath his skin, and low in his gut as well. He hasn’t felt this way since, well,  _ ever _ .

Derek knows he’s attractive, but aside from his relationship with Kate, he’s never had anything that lasted more than a night or two. And even in that relationship, it had never felt as easy or as comfortable as whatever he and Stiles shared.

They’re dangerous thoughts though. He can feel himself rushing,  _ falling _ into something way too quickly. So, he pushes the emotions away and tries to ignore them.

Not only because Derek doubts that Stiles feels the same way, to the same  _ depth _ , but because Stiles can do so much better. He’s too broken, too damaged to ever be what Stiles deserves.

Not to mention that whatever they have right now isn’t going to last. Derek would get him to the Emissaries, hopefully by the end of the day, and that would be the end of it. Even if the thought of leaving him behind causes an ache in his chest.

“I think we’re here,” Derek says, changing the topic to distract himself.

Even from the outside, the campus looks abandoned. It’s probably one of the reasons why the Emissaries had chosen it, but it still puts Derek on edge.

“In the science building, yeah?” Stiles says, looking at a board with a campus map on it. Derek nods.

“Then it’s that way,” Stiles continues, pointing to the north.

They leave the horses inside an abandoned classroom, where they can’t be easily seen, and continue on foot.

As they walk through campus, it’s clear that no one has been living there for some time. On most buildings, windows are shattered, doors have been pulled off their hinges, and cracks are starting to appear. Plant growth has gone wild, with many of the buildings being overtaken and coated in green. The whole campus is eerily quiet.

There’s no sign that anyone is living here, let alone a crew of Emissaries.

“That should be it,” Stiles says, pointing to a building a few hundred yards down from them. The building doesn’t look anymore occupied than the other buildings, and Derek just hopes that the Emissaries are hiding themselves well.

It’s not until they’re closer to building that they hear it. The tell-tale sounds of the infected. Their moans are particularly pained; they’re runners, and they can’t have been changed for long.

Stiles and Derek duck down, and creep closer to the building. When they’re close enough, Stiles pulls his last Molotov out of his backpack, and lobs it through a broken window. The runners screech as they burn, but it’s over quickly.

Once the fire burns down, they walk into the building, finishing off the last few stragglers with a clean shot to the head. Derek tries not to think that they might be all that’s left of the Emissaries.

They walk through the rest of the building, searching for any sign of the Emissaries. Every room is empty, until they reach the topmost floor.

It had probably been their headquarters, if the layout of the room was anything to go by. It had clearly been abandoned though, and in a rush as well. There’s still equipment laying on the tables and benches, and papers and files were strewn across the floor. Spray painted across the far wall, in large letters, is: CLICKER OUTBREAK – GONE TO SLC.

“Okay, Salt Lake City,” Stiles says, with a panicked edge to his voice. “We can do that, right? I mean, we made it all the way from New York, what’s another few hundred miles?!”

“It’s okay,” Derek says, placing his hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “We’ll work this out.”

“What are we going to do?!” Stiles continues, his breaths becoming shorter and more ragged. “If we follow them, we risk travelling in the winter. And if we winter at the dam, then we risk missing them again!”

Stiles is right on both counts, but panicking isn’t going to do them much good out here.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to decide right now,” Derek offers. “We can think on it tonight, and decide tomorrow.”

Stiles nods, but his breaths remain quick.

“We’ll be okay,” Derek continues, aiming for reassurance.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, leaning into Derek’s touch. After a few more moments, the teen stands. “I’m gonna check the supply cache.”

“What supply cache?”

“Emissaries usually hide some supplies when they leave, in case people are left behind,” Stiles explains, pulling away. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

While Stiles does that, Derek moves deeper into the room, to see if there’s anything else worth taking. There’s not much left behind, except for scientific equipment and the scattered files. 

“Found it!” Stiles calls out, pulling Derek’s attention from the Emissary files. “Come help me grab stuff.”

Derek follows the sounds of his voice out of the room and down the corridor, to an old storage cupboard.

“See?” Stiles says, gesturing to the shelves behind him. “Told you they left supply caches.”

Not much had been left behind. There’s an advanced first aid kit, some rations, and a few clips of ammunition. But it’s better than nothing, and he and Stiles quickly pack away the supplies.

“We should check the rest of the building, see what else we can find,” Derek suggests. Whether they decide to head back to the dam or push forward to Salt Lake City, they’d need more than they’d found. It’s still early in the day. They have time before they have to bunker down for the night.

“Sure,” Stiles replies, leading the way out of the storeroom. They exit into a long corridor between two buildings, with large glass windows. 

Stiles stops in his tracks, staring out the window.

“What’s that?” Stiles says, making Derek pause.

In the building across the courtyard, something flickers, shining as it catches the light. The next moment, a bullet shatters the window next to him, missing him only by an inch.

They both drop to the ground as more bullets follow.

“Shit,” Stiles says. “Raiders!”

“Run!” Derek shouts, when there’s a break in the gunfire.

They sprint through the corridor, and race down a flight of stairs, only to find a raider waiting at the bottom. Stiles shoots them before they can shoot back.

Derek knows they’re outnumbered. He should have been more careful. He should have expected that they would be someone else around.

They keep running. The corridor empties into a common room. They pause just inside the entrance, catching their breath.

“You think we lost them?” Stiles asks, his breaths heavy.

“Maybe.” Derek replies. He keeps his eyes on Stiles. He just needs to make sure that Stiles is safe, nothing else matters right now.

He’s so distracted, that he doesn’t notice the raider, hiding behind the door. They spring on him, grabbing him in a chokehold. He tries to fight his way out of it, but suddenly, there’s pain. Pain like he’s never felt before, burning its way through his abdomen.

A second later, a gunshot rings through the air and the attacker drops dead on the ground behind him. It’s too late though. Derek’s hand reaches instinctively for the wound and comes back slick with his own blood.

Stiles pulls them into a side room, and Derek slides down next to the door, his legs growing weak.

“Let me see,” Stiles says, dropping his backpack and pulling out the first aid kit.

“Stiles, you need to go.” Derek says. He knows it’s bad. There’s no coming back from a wound like this, not out here.

“No, we’re not even going to start with that,” Stiles says, as he begins to wind a bandage around the wound.

The raiders are getting closer, their footsteps echoing through the halls.

“You’ll have a better chance if--” Derek starts, trying to push Stiles away. He cares about Stiles too much to let him die for nothing.

“I am not leaving you behind.” Stiles says with conviction in his voice, looking him straight in the eyes.

Stiles finishes dressing the wound, before pulling Derek back to his feet. The effort causes him to hiss in pain.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, pulling Derek’s arm over his shoulder. “It’s not that far, we just have to get back to the horses.”

Derek nods, and leans against Stiles. He can feel himself growing weaker as his vision begins to fade in and out.

One moment, there’s more raiders, and more gunshots. By the time he opens his eyes again, they’re all dead on the floor. He’s not sure how much time is passing – he’s losing fragments of time as he slips in and out of consciousness.

“Come on, stay with me!” Stiles says, and Derek tries to force himself to keep awake. But it’s a losing battle.

A few more moments pass, and he finds that he can’t keep himself conscious any longer.

His last memory is of Stiles holding him and calling his name.

~o~O~o~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologise for the lack of updates. I do try to keep to a regular posting schedule. Unfortunately, my father passed away very suddenly and unexpectedly at the beginning of the month. Between organising the funeral, liaising with the police, and just general grief, I did not have the time or energy to work on fic. I’m hoping there won’t be any more breaks, but healing takes time and I can’t promise anything (aside from the fact that this story will be finished at some point). I really appreciate your patience during this time.
> 
> Secondly, a huge thanks to everyone who has left kudos, comments, and subscribed to this fic. You guys give me life and keep me going ❤️
> 
> Wanna talk fandom? Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/anoptimistprime) or [Tumblr](https://an-optimist-prime.tumblr.com/)!


	7. Desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, please note that for this chapter there is a content warning for a depiction of a medical procedure (specifically, a blood transfusion). If you need more information, please see the endnotes.
> 
> Also, please suspend your willing suspension of disbelief when it comes to survivable apocalypse injuries!

Stiles takes a shaking breath and wills himself not to panic. He needs to stay calm if they’re going to survive this.

With all the raiders dead or gone, he pulls Derek into an old classroom. He’d been slipping in and out for the last few minutes, but he’s completely unconscious now.

Stiles gently leans Derek against a wall and digs around in his backpack for the first aid kit he took from the Emissary cache. Without treatment, Derek will bleed out before they can move any further.

Unlike Scott, Stiles has never been any good with medicine, but even he knows enough that the wound is bad. The first bandage he’d put on is already soaked through with blood, and Derek is worryingly pale.

He combs through the first aid kit, pulling out the antiseptic, fresh bandages, and a suture kit. Setting everything down on the ground around him, he tries to remember everything that Melissa taught him. 

The two most important things are blood loss and infection. Stiles needs to clean the wound and close it up. That… he thinks he can do. He just hopes that nothing important is punctured.

Stiles pours some alcohol over his hands to clean them, then leans over Derek.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back the blood-soaked bandages and pouring alcohol across the wound. It mixes with the blood to run in pink-tinged rivulets down Derek’s side. Stiles winces in sympathy, but Derek’s so out of it that he doesn’t even flinch. Stiles swaps the antiseptic bottle for a needle and thread, stitching the wound closed before wrapping a bandage tightly around Derek’s middle.

With the wound treated, Stiles half drags, half carries Derek back to the classroom they’d left the horses in. He moves as fast as he can with Derek’s dead weight slumped against him. 

Socks is gone—one of the raiders must have managed to escape, but Roscoe is still where they left him.

It’s difficult, but Stiles somehow manages to get Derek up onto the horse. He leads Roscoe out of the building, moving slowly so that Derek doesn’t fall. Once they’re outside, Stiles carefully mounts the horse behind Derek. With one hand on the rains and the other around Derek to keep him upright, Stiles nudges Roscoe into a canter.

They need to leave the university, before the raiders come back. Stiles decides to head west. There’s no way they can make it back to the dam with Derek in this condition. Their best chance is to find somewhere safe to bunker down until Derek is recovered enough to keep going.

~o~O~o~

They’re not far from a small town when Stiles finds the first one.

It’s a body, strapped to a pole and torched. The sight of it makes him shudder, reminding him too much of the raiders back in Cheyenne.

Stiles skirts around the town, but more torched bodies litter the roads he follows. He counts seven of them before they’re forced to stop— the weather is growing too hostile to continue on. 

They’ll have to stay here, and he’ll just have to be careful.

Turning the horse towards town, they pick their way through the first through streets. Stiles doesn’t want to get too close to the centre of town, but most of the houses they pass are burnt out shells and would provide little shelter. He has more luck on the next street, though. It looks like it might have been a nice neighbourhood, before everything. Now the grass grows high and wild, taking over fences and rusted vehicles. 

Careful not to overbalance Derek, Stiles dismounts and leads Roscoe over to one of the more intact houses. It’s large, with some sort of office space at the front, but the sign is long since faded.

Stiles ties the reins to the metal railing and peaks in through the windows. Inside, it looks quiet and undisturbed. Stiles rummages around in his pack for his lock pick set and gets to work on the front door. 

It doesn’t take Stiles long to break in. The front room looks like some sort of reception area, with a desk and plastic seats and little tables covered with decaying books and magazines. Wanting to get Derek inside and out of the rain as soon as possible, Stiles decides the house will do for now.

The next challenge is getting Derek down from the horse. He’s conscious again, but every little movement sets his teeth on edge. 

“Stay still, let me do it,” Stiles tells him when Derek tries to swing his leg over to dismount. 

Stiles settles Derek into one of the back rooms, then leaves to explore the rest of the house. It’s in surprisingly good condition and has a basement with a fireplace. 

In one of the bedrooms Stiles finds blankets and sheets in tubs under the bed. He piles them all into a makeshift bed in a corner of the basement.

He’s not looking forward to moving Derek again, but it’s too open upstairs— there are too many windows and no curtains left to cover them. He helps Derek down to the basement, leaves him there in the nest of blankets while he gathers old broken pieces of furniture for firewood.

They can light the fire after dark, so no one will see the smoke. Stiles hopes that it’ll be enough to keep them warm enough at night. The weather grows harsher with each passing day. It’ll be snowing before long. 

Because of that, Stiles decides to let Roscoe go. They’ll be stuck in town until Derek recovers, and Roscoe won’t survive the winter if they keep him here.

It’s hard to say goodbye. Stiles stands in the frigid wind, with Roscoe’s bridle in one hand, and the saddle at his feet. 

“Maybe we’ll see each other around,” he says, giving the horse one final pat. Carrying the tack inside where it’ll be hidden from anyone passing by, Stiles watches as Roscoe wanders away from the house.

Now, it’s just him and Derek.

~o~O~o~

It gets too cold to linger in the doorway. 

Stiles locks the door. Not ready to go back down into the basement, he pokes around in the offices, curious about what they were used for. 

The first door he tests opens to a sparsely decorated room. There is a desk with a chair lying broken beside it. Along the far wall is a metal bed on wheels. 

It’s an examination room, and the next room is the same. They must be in some sort of home clinic. Most of the medical supplies appear to have been taken, but some of the more specialist stuff is still there, including a full set of surgery tools and everything needed for a blood transfusion. Stiles hopes he won’t have to use it. 

He heads back to the basement and builds up the fireplace. It takes a while for the treated wood to catch, but finally they have a crackling fire that casts warmth and heat across the room. 

“Hey.” Stiles wakes Derek with a gentle shake. “You need to eat something.” He holds out one of the ration bars from his pack.

“‘m not hungry.” Derek replies, barely able to keep himself upright.

“I know, just try. Please?”

Derek takes the bar with shaking fingers but doesn’t eat. His eyes start to droop shut, and his hand falls lax in his lap.

Stiles swallows back the panic as he grips Derek’s face with both hands. His skin is cold and clammy. “You have to wake up.” He puts all the authority he can muster into his voice and Derek rouses enough to drink some water.

It’s not enough, but there’s not much more Stiles can do. When he checks the bandage, there are spots of blood on the outermost layer. He decides against unwrapping it in favour of adding another bandage over the top with more pressure over the wound. 

Derek groans while Stiles works but doesn’t wake.

Once he’s finished, Stiles takes the rations Derek had dropped. He eats quickly, ignoring the bland, chalky taste and settles down for a long night.

~o~O~o~

Stiles doesn’t sleep. He spends the night watching over Derek, as his stab wound bleeds through the new layer of bandaging. 

As dawn rises over the small town, Stiles puts out the fire and piles the blankets he’d claimed for himself over Derek. He doesn’t know what else he can do. 

In the weak light of Stiles’ torch, it doesn’t look good. Derek is pale, his breath coming in short quick pants. Stiles can see the rapid fluttering of Derek’s pulse in his neck. 

Derek is dying, and Stiles doesn't know how to fix it.

The room suddenly feels too small, the walls are pressing in on him. Lunging to his feet, Stiles stumbles from the room choking on air that feels too thick to drag into his lungs. Outside, a thin layer of snow has settled over the ground overnight. Little puffs of steam cloud the air as Stiles gulps down lungfuls of frigid air.

The biting chill is grounding. He focuses on the sensation, the prickling cold in his fingertips and tries to bring his heart rate under control. He needs to stop, needs to think. 

Derek cannot die. Scott and Erica have already died for him, and he will not allow anyone else to pay for his mistakes.

His medical knowledge is scarce, but he knows enough that he can tell that Derek is suffering from severe blood loss. It’s something that, in theory, Stiles knows how to treat. but, it’s a risk. Even assuming that the transfusion goes smoothly, and assuming it works, the infection in his own blood may very well kill Derek anyway. 

But, without it, Derek will certainly die. Which is completely unacceptable.

It’s with grim certainty that Stiles heads back inside. He goes back to the second examination room, and removes the transfusion kit. He returns to the basement, and drops all the gear on the floor beside Derek.

“Okay, you can do this.” Stiles says, as he sits down. “ _I_ can do this.” He talks to Derek, even if he’s unconscious to reassure him and also reassure himself. “Scott described it to me once in-” Stiles shudders at the memory. “ _Graphic_ detail. So I’ve got this.”

His friend had been high on the adrenaline of saving a life, and Stiles sends up a silent thanks to his overly enthusiastic best friend. 

There’s a chair nearby, and Stiles gets the sense that gravity will help with this, so he pulls it over. He pulls some of their alcohol out of Derek’s pack as well. They’d been using it to make molotovs, but it would do for this. 

Stiles uses a rag to wipe alcohol over the crook of Derek’s arm before sending up a silent apology for using Derek to practice this part on.

It takes three goes to push past the squeamishness and insert the needle. It takes two more attempts after that to place the cannula correctly and withdraw the needle.

Then it’s his turn.

Stiles hates needles, hates any kind of blood, and sticking Derek had been hard enough. His hands shake as he stabs himself the first time. It hurts, but he tries again.

When he finally gets it, Stiles is feeling weak and shaky from the adrenaline wearing off. He takes a moment to gulp down a couple of breaths, then picks up the tubing and connects it to the cannula in his arm. 

“Don’t worry,” he tells Derek as the blood begins to flow down the tube, “I’m a universal donor.” He clenches his fist a couple of times and watches the blood advance more quickly.

Stiles connects the tubing climbs onto the chair, watching the blood drip into Derek as gravity forces it down from his arm.

He’s not sure how long he sits there for. He’s not sure how long he’s supposed to sit there for. He’s completely winging it.

Stiles shifts forward to check Derek’s arm. 

Dizziness hits him all of a sudden and he sways in his seat.

He just manages to disconnect the line between him and Derek and lower himself to the floor before another wave of dizziness sends him tumbling.

Stiles sprawls out next to Derek, blinking the grey spots from his vision. He needs to get up, he needs to check Derek's bandages and he needs to eat something to counteract his own blood loss, but Stiles' limbs feel heavy so he does neither of those things.

~o~O~o~

After a while, Stiles tentatively pushes himself upright. His head spins lazily as he reaches for his pack and the rations inside, but he doesn’t pass out.

Once he's eaten something, Stiles starts to feel a little better. He spends the rest of the day sitting with his back against the wall, both his and Derek's packs emptied around him so that he can take stock of their supplies. 

The first aid kit is severely depleted. There's one roll of clean bandages left. He's going to need to find something to clean them with if he can't get Derek's bleeding under control soon. 

There's a couple of days worth of food left. Stiles will need to ration it carefully.

He takes stock of their weapons and ammo, then takes the time to properly clean and maintain their guns. He's fingers still fumble over the parts, but the tremors are starting to abate.

Derek's still alive when the sky darkens enough to relight the fire. Stiles takes that as a good sign. The wound is still bleeding, but Stiles thinks it's slowing. 

He forces himself up to go search the house for a bucket, and fill it with the sleeting rain that is falling outside. He heats the water on the fire and uses it to clean the used bandages and hangs them up to dry.

He settles himself into a routine. 

Everything’s going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay again, my life is still a mess~ 
> 
> First of all, huge shout out to Tails89 for basically writing all the medical procedure sections when I was too squicked to.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, comment, and kudos the fic. You give me life ❤️
> 
> *  
> About the medical procedures: In the first section of the chapter, Stiles sutures up Derek’s wound. Later on, Stiles realises that Derek needs a blood transfusion to survive, and manages to successfully carry one out himself. If you don’t want to read this, I would skip from:
> 
> “But, without it, Derek will certainly die. Which is completely unacceptable.”
> 
> to
> 
> “After a while, Stiles tentatively pushes himself upright.”
> 
> Just to be safe.

**Author's Note:**

> So, hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Come chill with me on [Tumblr](http://an-optimist-prime.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/anoptimistprime) :)


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